


Afternoon Vanilla Sun

by cuddlepunk



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angels, Depression, Fluff, M/M, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 16:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15319149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlepunk/pseuds/cuddlepunk
Summary: There’s something boundless in Phil. Not bad, just something intangible, incomprehensible to the conscious mind. Dan lets it wash over him when sun shines through inky black hair, in the few moments Phil lifts his shirt off. It feels like a puzzle, a code. He wishes he paid more attention in math class. There has to be a way to crack the angles of Phil’s bare shoulders, the way his hands move on keypads. If he wrote it all out it’d be infinite.





	Afternoon Vanilla Sun

**Author's Note:**

> this is really weird idk I hope you like it but probably not
> 
> title and some themes and events from the song "Somewhere a Judge" by Hop Along

Phil’s eyes have always shone a bit too bright in the dark. His pupils stretch wide until only a paper thin ring of blue sits behind closed lids. Lips parted, silent tongued hymns laid like gold leaf upon them. Dan swears he can hear the words leaving his lover’s mouth, but his head hurts trying to remember what they mean, like trying to recall the lyrics of an old children’s showtune. His songs wash away on the River Thames. Splashing brackish. 

Otherworldly, Dan thinks to himself. It (or something resembling it, only spoken by much different mouths) had been perched at the tip of his tongue for eons. There’s something boundless in Phil. Not bad, just something intangible, incomprehensible to the conscious mind. Dan lets it wash over him when sun shines through inky black hair, in the few moments Phil lifts his shirt off. It feels like a puzzle, a code. He wishes he paid more attention in math class. There has to be a way to crack the angles of Phil’s bare shoulders, the way his hands move on keypads. If he wrote it all out it’d be infinite. 

They sit across from one another out on the balcony just before morning. The first sign of sun has yet to catch them, but it’s cutting close. This is what they do after sleepless nights. Jetlag is a bitch, especially after returning from Hollywood, and Phil loves sunrises. With tour over, they finally get to sit back and really enjoy one again. Dan sips lavender tea and gazes intently at Phil’s silhouette against the clouds. 

“I miss being up so high.” He says. The wind makes his eyes flutter.

When Dan gives him an odd look he continues, “with you I mean. Our first kiss.” 

He says the last word nearing a whisper, lips carefully forming the word like it’s something to look after once it travels through the air. You have to be careful saying those sorts of things. They’d learned that lesson more than enough times by now. 

“I’m sure you do.” Dan smiles, deciding to unfold from his chair and walk to his lover.

Phil pulls him into his lap, the kind of thing they shouldn’t be doing when people can see in. “You keep me grounded though.”

\---

It takes about five days back at the apartment for Dan to deteriorate into the hallway carpet. 

Because that was it, right? Their one attempt at a lasting impression. Which means everything from here on out will be a failure, it’ll pale in comparison to the utter beauty and prestige of the fucking amazing tour is not on fire. So why even try? Why even make another video, or live to see another day if it’s all downhill from here?

He doesn’t even have music playing. There’s torrential downpour outside, clouds soot grey and dripping with mean rain. Dan loves rain, but this feels like an attack. It’s hard on a nearby window, throwing punches, speaking sharp insults in morse code.

Dan feels Phil step onto the hallway carpet like a spider feels a fly get caught in their web. Sometimes he’s scared Phil will get stuck there too, wriggling on the floor until they both end up dead. It’s a terrifying thought. 

Phil’s never been afraid, though. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

He also always knows when Dan needs space or a shoulder to cry on. Dan could cry thinking about it, all the kindness, patience, and honest to God love Phil shows him. 

“I think so.” It feels like poundland marbles in his throat. 

Phil takes hold of his upper arm, his tall body leaned far down to reach the floor. “Come on. To the lounge.”

He lets Dan rest his forehead on his chest, one hand tracing the bumps of Dan’s spine. Phil’s always had gentle hands, hands that shake when they hold a mug, that still stutter their sureness on Dan’s hips. It seems no matter how settled in, he still flutters. 

It’s always a vanilla flavored blur when he gets like this. He doesn’t remember eating, or showering, or going to bed, but Dan wakes up with damp hair and not a twinge of hunger.

“You have feathers in your hair.” Dan’s voice is thick with sleep and lack of giving many fucks about anything. 

“It’s a fashion statement.” He smiles, leaning into the touch as Dan pulls them out from his black hair.

They sleep with a down comforter. It’s thick and heavy on Dan’s front, fluffy with little white tendrils that creep out of time-loosened seams and into Phil’s night black hair. It seems Dan’s always pausing for a moment to gently pull one out. Sometimes it doesn't feel so complicated or deep, being with Phil. Sometimes it's just fingers in hair and lips on corners of lips, free of unspoken truths or secrets. It doesn't feel like keeping secrets.

He turns on the television, a newscaster’s impartial and clear voice resounding around their bedroom. “Eight convicts on death row in Arkansas have been killed by lethal injection ahead of their projected dates. The state’s supply of drugs were soon to reach their expiration date. The morals of this decision will be reviewed by…”

“Phil?” Dan’s glad he didn’t look at the screen. 

“Hm?” His glasses are perched high on his nose, shirt crumpled with sleep. 

“Why do bad things happen?”

Phil’s hand slips under the covers to grab hold of Dan’s, familiar and ever welcome. “I think for every bad thing that happens, plenty of good things happen in response. It’s just the bad things are louder sometimes.”

Dan’s woken up enough now to wonder what time of day it is. It’s a cloudy day, not enough light coming through their window to tell him if it’s night yet, but at least he can’t hear the rain anymore.

“...In other news, a class of therapy dogs have graduated from their training at a local facility and will be starting their jobs helping disabled individuals today…”

Phil taps Dan’s back incessantly. “Look! Look at their little jackets!” He giggles, tongue between his teeth.

Dan cranes his neck to no disappointment. A seemingly never ending line of golden retrievers in reflective jackets smile back at him, tails wagging and eyes alert.

What he takes more notice of, though, is that look in Phil’s eyes, like he’s seeing far past the television, like he knows every word the reporter’s about to speak. “I guess you’re right Phil.”

He always is. Nothing could prove that better than Dan sitting himself up and shuffling into Phil’s lap for a kiss, though. This, hands on the nape of his neck and soft breaths fanning across his lips, outweighs any curveball the world could throw. 

The sun comes out from behind the clouds and slots through their blinds, throwing orange-red lines across their bedding. It’s sunset after all.


End file.
